All Nightmare Long
by Mission Catalyst
Summary: Pre-series, Weechesters. Dean fulfills his role as protector when the boys are kidnapped by a cult of very sinister abductors- clowns. As time runs out, Sam and Dean must rely on each other if they want to escape... alive.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N So, I picked this back up again after a couple years. I rewrote the two original chapters because they were ten parts artsy and ninety parts too hard to follow. My new writing style is a lot simpler and a lot more enjoyable to read.**

 **Sam is fourteen.**

 **Dean is eighteen.**

 **John is... I don't know. I hate math.**

* * *

 ** _Chapter One_**

 **Merrimack, New Hampshire 1996**

Sam Winchester tried not to be a bother.

Really, he did.

He tried so much in fact, that when his father burst through the motel door, his brother in tow, waking him from the first deep sleep he'd had in months, he kept silent.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," John said. "Up and at 'em." He yanked the sheets to Sam's ankles. Sam sleepily noticed the long, thin scratch running along the curve of his jawline.

Dean clicked on the bedside light. His face, peppered with darkening bruises, broke into a crooked grin. "Wake up, princess," was all he said. Sam blinked slowly, throwing an arm across his eyes.

"You said Dad promised," he murmured.

"Promised what?"

"That we'd stay for my mock trial this Tuesday. They picked me to—"

"Sam!" John snapped. "Let's go!"

Dean squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

"Yeah. Whatever." Sam snatched his duffel bag and began packing, looking anywhere but at his father.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't _ever_ fair.

Several minutes later, the motel room was clean and empty, beer bottles tossed in the trash can, maps unhooked from the walls.

"Did you find it?" Sam asked Dean. "The Wendigo?"

When Dean nodded, something primal flickered in his eyes.

Sam never understood how his brother could look a creature in the face and blow it to bits.

Sam didn't understand a lot of things about his family.

"Ready to get out of here?" John asked the room.

"No," Sam muttered. John flashed him a warning glance, jaw tightening. Dean just licked his lips, rubbing a hand over his face, wondering how the hell his little brother could bear such a temper.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't _ever_ fair.

When the motel door slammed shut, it was seven in the morning. Sam bit his lip at the finality of the sound, turning his back to John and Dean and the guns poking from their pockets and duffels.

He tried not to be a bother. Really, really. But sometimes, he wondered if John even cared about him at all.

They walked across the parking lot in silence, dew clinging to the soles of their shoes.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered.

Sam looked up.

"You can take the front seat. If you want."

Sam couldn't help but smile, and even though he shook his head no, Dean seemed to latch onto it. Sam would always have Dean. He needed his little brother to know that. No matter how many promises their father broke, Sam would always have Dean.

Sam settled into the backseat of the Impala, spreading a blanket across his lap. "What happened back there, Dean?" His voice was thick with sleep, but the question had to be asked. Just a simple reassurance that neither his father nor brother sported any mortal wounds or witches' curses.

Dean chuckled, a low rumble from the front seat, and Sam grinned. "Smoked that mother to hell, didn't we, Dad?"

"Yessir. Lit up like a match."

Sam decided to ask the question that had lingered on his lips since the beginning. "Where are we going?"

"Holyoke," John answered after a beat of silence. "And by the looks of it, this case is setting up to be a real bitch."

* * *

 **Holyoke, Massachusetts**

Two hours later, John nosed the Impala into the lot of a run-down gas station.

"So what's going on, Dad?" Dean asked. "Why are we here?" John passed Dean several fliers stamped with seven nearly identical round faces tilted skyward.

"Seven boys. All adolescents. One minute they're eating dinner and the next they've got wanted posters racked up all over town."

Dean's eyes hardened. "These kids," he said. "They can't be more than fourteen."

"Try thirteen. Oldest is seventeen."

Sam spoke up. "That's why we're here, isn't it?"

John's gaze fastened on him for a moment, then slowly looked away. He brushed his lips against the lip of his coffee, going through the motions of taking a drink even though Sam knew the cup was empty and he was just gathering the right words, and, more importantly, the right way to say them.

"Yeah, son. That's why we're here. There's a lady who works as cashier. A mother. Her son…"

"The latest vic?" Dean asked.

John nodded. "And his mother was there the night the kid got 'napped, according to the papers."

Sam wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms, refusing to move as John and Dean stepped out of the Impala. If his father found no guilt in breaking yet another promise to his youngest, Sam certainly had no qualms in ducking out of whatever investigation John had cooked up.

"You coming, Sam?" John said. It didn't register like a question. "Come help your brother find something for dinner."

"C'mon," Dean said. He thumped his hand against the car. "I'll buy you a bag of Funyuns." He winked. "Know you like those."

Sam groaned, shoving the door open. "I'd like," he mumbled through gritted teeth, "to eat something that doesn't come out of a freaking package, for once." Dean grinned, shoving his shoulder, and Sam shoved back. The moment John disappeared inside, Sam stopped Dean, shoving a few of wadded bills into his hands. "Here, Dean. I hafta pee, and the only bathroom's outside."

Dean squinted. "You little sneak."

But Sam was already laughing, already gone, strolling around the corner of the building. He knew it was stupid. He knew, in the long run, his father would always have the upper hand.

But he sure as shit wasn't going into that gas station.

He wasn't going to let his father win.

Not this time.

Whistling, he fumbled with the door handle and slipped inside the bathroom. Almost immediately, he pulled back, taking several steps backwards and plugging his nose.

"Rank," he murmured. Peering around the door, he gave another shudder. The floor was dingy tile, smeared with slippery brown wetness, something yellow trickling from the ceiling. And the smell—holy _shit_ , holy _God_ , the _smell_ — it was something like a combination of weed and feces, and it hit Sam's stomach like a punch in the gut. Sickly yellow light pooled from a flickering bulb.

"Still better than going inside," he choked. He crossed the floor, taking care not to slip, and shimmied his zipper down before the urinal. He to tried concentrate on something, anything, other than that horrific smell, but each time his mind wandered, it drifted into his nostrils again. Grimacing, Sam finished his business, feeling dirtier by the minute, and zipped his pants up.

The door squeaked open.

Sam sighed. "Dad, I really did have to pee. I wasn't lying. I swear, I was—" He stopped. He wasn't facing the door, but he knew the sound of John's boots when he heard them. His breath quickened.

This wasn't John.

Or Dean.

The squelching footsteps of shoes far too large issued forth in a series of jerky, haphazard motions. Sam's stomach tingled; he bit his lip, swallowing, as the whispery hum of the lightbulb mounted to a flat buzz. He shook his head slightly, and turned around.

Standing before him was a clown.

He recoiled, reeling backwards until his back bumped against the wall. Sam knew, knew, knew his fear wasn't rational, because God, clowns were only _people_ , after all; beneath the wigs and makeup, they were just plain, boring Tom, Dicks, and Harrys, only _people_ after all. But good Lord, none of the clowns Sam had ever seen looked at him the way this one did.

Like it was hungry.

Sam's mouth gaped in the formation of a scream, breath expelling in soft hisses, trying not to laugh or cry or scream all at the same time.

The clown cocked its head, a slow smile slithering across its face. It swayed delightedly on its toes, its black, toothless gums smacking.

"Jesus Christ, what do you want, man?" Sam whispered. "How'd you even get in here?"

He searched the thing's face for any sign of the supernatural, and on finding none, gained a little more confidence. Still, even the non-rapey-looking clowns scared the ever-living shit out of him, and he couldn't deny the instinct to run any longer.

"Get the fuck out of my way," Sam said, a little louder now. He brandished his pocket knife, thrusting it forward several times in the hope of appearing braver than he actually was.

The clown's lips pulled back wider.

"Did you hear me?" Sam was using that deep, guttural bark he only heard from his brother and father when they were seriously pissed or frightened. "I _said_ , did you hear me?" Not waiting for a response, he took off. The clown simply watched as he rammed his shoulder into the door, scrambling outside.

That was what scared him most.

And yet, as he turned the corner, he seemed to hear the clown all around him. Beside him, behind him, in front of him— the tinkle of little silver bells. The squelching of rubber shoes. Sam's chest was fit to bursting, the fear an almost tangible thing knocking at his heart. Where was his brother? Where the _hell_ was Dean?

He glanced over his shoulder, only to hit something before he could turn back. He raised his fist, ready to drive the pocketknife home.

"Whoa, Sammy!"

"Dean? Oh, God. _Dean_!"

"Are you all right?" Dean frowned. "You've seen something, haven't you?"

"No—yes, Dean, I—"

Dean grabbed his shoulders and shook gently. "Sam— what did you see, kiddo? You can tell me. It's okay." He shook his head, mumbling, "Jesus. You're shaking like a leaf."

"It was a clown, Dean. And—" He shuddered. "It—chased me."

Dean started. "I'm sorry?"

"A _clown_. Like, a circus clown. It walked in on me when I was taking a piss— I don't know how it even got in there—"

"Are you hurt?" Sam took an unconscious step back. Dean's eyes were alight with fury, pure, unadulterated rage spiking each of the three words like a barb. Damn straight, Dean was mad. No one had ever harassed his brother and gotten away with it. This little clown fucker wouldn't, either. "Sam," he repeated. "Are you hurt?"

"Well, no."

"Did it touch you?"

"No. It didn't."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, trying to smile but finding it very hard to. "Freaking killer clowns. What the hell is this world coming to?"

"A clown? Dean, you say you saw a _clown_?" John said as he jogged to meet them, eyes wide.

Sam nodded, biting his lip hard. "It followed me into the bathroom."

"It's gone, now," Dean said.

John swore. "Damn it all!" He swallowed hard, meeting Sam and Dean's stricken expressions. "We need to get to the motel room. Immediately."

Dean sat in the backseat with Sam. No one asked any questions.

* * *

That night, the Winchesters dined on Funyuns, Moonpies, and lukewarm Pepsi. For once, Sam didn't mind. By the light of the television screen, he tore through bag after bag, almost sick with hunger. He could hear John and Dean whispering on the other side of the room. Part of him desperately wanted to block his ears, but the other, truly terrified part, had to listen.

"…going on?" he heard Dean ask quietly. "…something I need to know?"

"The woman I spoke to…" John whispered. He said something unintelligible, and Sam listened harder. "The kid's mother. Said her son and all the other missing kids complained about clowns—following them, smiling at them… talking to them."

"Jesus." A pause. "…think one of 'em's after…?"

"Too soon to know. One thing's for sure, though. We can't leave."

"What? Why not?"

"Don't give me that look, Dean. The thing's got wind of Sam now. If we blow out of here, it'll just follow us."

"Better to fight it, then! In its unfamiliar territory!"

"Better to stay here, find its hiding place, and kill it dead before it lifts a finger on your brother. Better to kill the damn thing where we've got actual leads. You understand?"

"…yes, sir."

Sam rose from the couch, speaking softly. "I can help, you guys."

Dean gave him a comforting smile, John following suit. "We know you can, Sam," John said. "Thank you."  
Suddenly, the stolen police frequency transmission radio burst into static, a muffled voice saying, " _Lincoln Twelve, code 10-57. I'm en route to 881 Sussex and sending an alert on your party, Whahl, James Q., date of birth twelve eighteen of eighty_."

John stood up quickly. The radio crackled a second time. " _Party is a juvenile, white male, five feet and ten inches, one-forty, brown and blue, break—_ "

Sam rubbed a finger down the string of his hoodie. "That's another kid, isn't it?"

John's stare fastened on Dean. "We passed that street on the way in. Address has to be that closed Biggerson's."

Dean was already moving. He slipped a gun into the back of his waistband, pocketing a smaller Ruger. "We're not leaving Sam."

John frowned. Did his son just give him an order? He exhaled. "Then we'll take him along. Like we always do." He shouldered open the door. "There's no time to argue about this. Get in the car, both of you. _That's_ an order."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. They attempted to quell their painful imaginings of what could come out of this ambush for each of them. Dean wondered if it were possible for Sam to be able to sit this one out in the car, and Sam wondered if _Dean_ could do the same.

They followed their father to the Impala, very stiff and very quiet. Dean took command of the passenger seat without question; it was clear he was top dog now, and Sam would listen to him along with their father. As the road sucked beneath the tires, the heaviness of the situation dragged on the Winchesters like an anchor dragging through sand. It wasn't often the monsters they hunted went after one of their own. This time, they had so much to lose.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't _ever_ fair.

After what felt like seconds, John pulled into the deserted Biggerson's parking lot. Two police cars crouched in the darkness, smoke curling from the hoods.

"Geez," John said. "Someone set 'em on fire."

"Those were the police that must've come from the radio call," Sam said. Dean silently passed him a luger, his father supplying him with a small container of salt. The prospect of fighting a supernatural clown made Sam's stomach weak, but he took the weapons and pocketed them. After all, Dean's safety was on the line, too. The oldest boy taken was seventeen years old, just like his brother.

Dean wasn't the one deathly frightened of clowns, however.

"All right," John said, unlocking the door. "I'm going inside, okay? Dean, Sam, wait here. I don't know enough about these sons of bitches to get you involved."

"If you're in trouble, I'm coming in," Dean said.

John's grip tightened against the door handle. His face was unreadable, but he gave a thick swallow. "I don't want you to," he said, "but I can't stop you." And with that, he opened the door and disappeared into the night.

Sam made eye contact with Dean, who smirked, poking his shoulder. The expression on Sam's face almost killed him— horribly masked petrification— and he cursed the twist of fate that made this case involve _clowns_. He cleared his throat, mind scrambling for something to say. "When he kills that thing, we are _definitely_ gonna get some pie."

Sam laughed, the tension easing. "Sure Dean. That sounds good."

Several clipped shouts sounded from inside the building. They jumped to attention, squinting out the window.

"That sound like Dad to you?" Dean asked.

"Who else would it be?"

"DEAN!" their father shouted. "DEAN, YOU NEED TO—"

"Sammy, stay here," Dean said, voice strangled. "Don't even scratch your ass. I'll be right back."

Sam's stomach dropped. "Dean," he mumbled, lips so numb he could barely form his brother's name correctly. "Don't—don't leave—" Sam could kick himself at how pitiful he sounded. Dean's expression softened, and he cuffed his ear.

"You'll be safer in here."

"It's not me I'm worried about."

But Dean was already gone, already racing across the parking lot. Sam positioned the luger against his chest, mimicking the same gesture he'd seen from his family many times before. He watched Dean fumble with the side doors, but no matter how roughly he yanked them, they wouldn't budge. Sam had just gathered the confidence to get out and help when the noise of screeching tires sounded around the corner. He saw Dean cock his head, frozen. Sam leaned closer, waiting. Everything was deadly silent.

Almost as if in slow motion, a large black vehicle careened into the parking lot, headlights casting a harsh blue glow on the form of his brother. Sam gasped, hands pressing against the window, frantically shouting Dean's name, screaming at him to run, to leave, to get the _hell_ back to the car. And in that moment, he didn't mind leaving his father, if only it meant he and Dean could drive to safety. Surely John wouldn't begrudge him of that.

The van charged right at Dean, who threw his arms about his face, dropping into a low crouch and rolling sideways with his back to the ground. It sputtered to a stop before Dean, the doors sliding open. Dean swung his pistol and fired, the shots cracking emptily into the air, one after another, after another. His back faced Sam in a last-ditch effort to protect him.

A single clown stepped daintily from the van. Dean stumbled to his feet, anger tearing through his chest. The gun had been knocked clean from his hands during his fall, but he would always have his fists.

When Dean was furious, his fists were enough.

"You're the sonouva bitch that stalked my brother," he spit. "If you bleed, I can kill ya. And believe me, I'm going to." He smirked coldly. "Don't worry, I'll give you a few seconds' head start." The clown only stood there, the bells on its clothing tinkling in the dry wind. "All right," he said. "That's it." He advanced on the clown, but right before he could swing his fist back, he heard a movement behind him. His face crumpled. _Sam_. He heard Sam's footsteps thudding against the pavement, nausea sweeping his insides. "Sam, get back inside the car," he said calmly. Sam didn't respond; his chest ached, and he could feel his eyes beginning to wet.

"Get out of the way, Dean," he said. Sam was crying now, unable to see through his blurred vision. The fears that kept him up at night screaming, the fears Dean promised would never come to pass, the fears of clowns and Dean's death and Dean's fear and Dean's pain— He raised the luger, and without any further thought, fired the shot. The bullet whined, striking home in the clown's suit.

"Sammy," Dean started, "You—"

"It didn't work, Dean," Sam said lowly. "It's still standing."

The clown tilted its head, touching its chest. A slow smirk spread across its face. To Dean and Sam's horror, a second clown stepped from the van, followed by a third, a fourth, a fifth, until a ring of clowns encircled them. They skipped in a tight circle to their own horrific song and dance.

 _"We're going to a birthday party!"_

 _"Would you like to come to our birthday party?"_

Dean snatched Sam's luger, firing round after round at the ring. Each bullet zinged past, or through— it really made no difference. Inside the building a voice screamed, "BOYS! RUN! IT'S A TRAP! _RUN_!"

They stood back-to-back. Dean reared his fist back, but before he could plough it into the nearest clown, a gloved hand cracked into his cheek, sending the luger flying from his hands. He shouted, clutching his stinging face. It hurt worse than almost anything, worse than any of the fights he'd been in before. Before either he or Sam could react, a pair of arms enveloped him, squeezing him tight.

"Sam!" he gasped. He reached for his brother, who was already thrashing in the arms of another. It glanced down at Sam, smiling softly.

"Hush, little boy!" it said, clamping a hand across his mouth. "There'ths no reathon to be thcreaming. Why, no reathon at all. We're going to thutch a lovely birthday party." Its black eyes glittered in the street lamps. Sam's muffled shrieks were clipped as it held a filthy dishrag dripping chloroform to his lips. His legs buckled, and he collapsed in a limp heap, hands swinging.

"No! SAM!" Dean writhed as the rag drew to him. He scratched at the arms, nails digging into the spongey skin until the rag pressed against his mouth.

From inside the building, John continued hollering at his boys to run, continuing long after Dean and Sam were dumped into the back of the van, continuing until the wail of sirens brayed in the distance.

* * *

 **A/N Thanks for making it this far. Don't forget to leave me a review to let me know how I'm doing. I THRIVE off feedback.**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two_**

Dean was hit by a truck.

That was the only plausible explanation he could think of as he struggled to a sitting position. A shrill scream burst through the silence, crescendoing to a screech, then tapering off into nothingness. His head felt stuffed with cotton, the metallic taste of old blood swirling about his mouth. Everything, all around, was black. He groaned quietly, unable to process the scene before him.

More like he just didn't _want_ to process it.

"Dean?" a thin voice whispered. "… _Dean_?"

Sam.

His voice was so small, so full of pure disbelief that Dean snapped to immediate attention.

"Where are you? Can't see jack." After a beat of silence, he said sharply, "Sam Winchester, don't fuck with me." His voice cracked. "Where are you?" He squinted, eyes adjusting to the dark slowly but surely.

There was Sam, huddled in the corner of what appeared to be, to Dean's horror, a cage. He cursed beneath his breath. Beside him, before him, behind him, were walls and walls of identical cages. They housed two to three quivering lumps, curled in on themselves, wheezing. Far away was a prick of light. The air was thick with the smell of urine.

And…

Dean cocked his head.

He could smell sugar from a mile away. Endless nights binging pies oozing with sweet sugar glaze, sharing countless bags of M&Ms and Debbie cakes with Sam…

Sugar.

Intermingling with the urine, Dean smelled sugar.

"The missing boys," he breathed.

Long fingers curled around his bicep, squeezing tight. "Dean," Sam said, still unbelieving.

"Did you scream, Sam?"

"Not me. One of the other boys."

"Jesus."

Sam was beside himself; his eyes shone in the faint light, and he clutched Dean's arm with the force of someone half his age. Dean held his brother's jaw, lifting it closer to his face. He studied Sam's bruised cheekbones, his swollen purple bags, the tautness of his skin. A slow, nauseating dread swept through him.

"Sam?" he said calmly. "How long have I been asleep?"

His brother's expression told him all he needed to know.

"Sammy?"

Sam swiped his tongue over his cracked lips, once, twice, several times, but the blood wouldn't budge. "A while, Dean," he whispered in such a frail crack of a voice that a surge of familiar protectiveness roared in Dean's chest. He yanked his brother towards him, shaking his shoulders.

"Talk to me, Sam. That's an order." He stiffened, face crumpling, and viciously rammed himself into his brother's chest, butting his chin against Dean's collarbone.

How could he tell Dean the things he saw?

The things they did?

 _The hope he'd lost?_

"I—just—" His jaw tightened. "Three weeks, Dean."

Dean gave a quiet moan. "Those little—"

"You came in and out. I fed you. You kept it down." The corner of his mouth quirked bitterly. "Sometimes." He gave a shuddering sigh. Dean nodded cautiously, encouraging him to continue. "They came a few hours ago," Sam added. "You were asleep. They put the plate and pitcher through the bars and I pulled you into the corner and waited for them to leave, but…they just kinda stood there. Staring at me. And moving, a bit, I think. Yeah, they swayed. Like they were dancing to music that wasn't there. They bring us cake to eat every night. And lemonade and water. Trying to get us fat or something."

Dean regarded Sam's bony figure, for once cursing his brother's intelligence. "But not you, huh?" he asked. "You're not playing into their twisted Hansel and Gretel game."

Sam chuckled.

And then he broke. Quietly. His chest hitched from stifling the force of his sobs; he grabbed fistfuls of Dean's shirt and held on for dear life. Dean's throat constricted. Lord, Almighty. These clowns, man. He was going to pummel them into the ground. From dust to dust? Oh, no.

When Dean was finished with them, not even dust would remain.

He rocked him, back and forth, back and forth, like he was three instead of thirteen.

"I didn't want—I didn't want to freak you—you o-out," Sam sobbed.

"Freak—freak _me_ out? Sam. God, Sam."

"I—Dean—I was s-so freaking scared."

"Oh, Sammy. Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, so, sorry. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."  
Sam stiffened. "You actually promise?"

"God, yeah. You want me to get it tattooed somewhere? I'll ink one right on my ugly ass." He shared a watery laugh with Sam. And then he started talking. About many things, really, simple nothings that he knew would bring worlds of comfort to his beaten brother. He talked about little green plastic army men, about the softness of his mother's voice, about the deliciousness of the last pie he'd eaten. Apricot. It was apricot.

"…it was hot," he murmured. "My tongue was burned for like, a freaking week." Sam didn't respond. He had slackened in Dean's hold, breaths deep and even. Dean peeled off his jacket and laid it on the floor. He was exhausted, nothing left to feel but hollow dread and nausea. He laid with his brother curled into his chest, a position they hadn't reverted to since Sam was four and nightmares plagued his dreams every night. Dean knew sleep wouldn't be easy, not when his brother's safety was on the line.

"Sammy," he whispered. "You asleep?"

No response.

Dean allowed himself to drift. It wasn't much, but it was something.

It wasn't long before a sharp squeal pierced through the cages; Dean jerked upwards, listening intently. He scooted in front of his brother, whose chest still rose and fell with the same even breathing. When was the last time the kid actually rested?

A door shrieked open. Dean rose to a crouch, squinting through the dark. At the end of the hall, the pinprick of light began to pulsate. On his hands and knees, he crawled forward, taking care not to attract the wandering eye of the boys in the other cages. If they screamed, he was dead.

Before long, footsteps squelched down the hall. Dean retreated into the shadows, every muscle tense, poised to fight. He glanced at Sam, asleep in his jacket cocoon. Good. If something were to happen to him, at least Sammy wouldn't see.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't _ever_ fair.

The footsteps multiplied. Dean saw a snatch of tattered fabric, the faded reds, blues, yellows, and greens mottled into dinginess. He bit his lip, hard. His hand drew to his pocket, instinctively searching for a weapon.

God, he wanted to curse so badly.

The clowns drew closer, marching single file. The squelching reverberated off the walls, the bars of the cages. They echoed, pounded into Dean's ears, and for the first time, he felt a pang of fear. For a split second, the desire for his father was overpowering. If not for him, then for his brother. For the first time, Dean wondered if he'd be able to protect his brother, after all.

The clowns were relentless in their parade. They inspected every cage. Dean watched as they stared the boys down, dead eyes boring into their faces. The kids shrieked, sobbed, created a cacophony of noise that sent Dean's hands flying to his ears. Before the noise reached near frightening levels, the clowns moved on. Dean craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the other boys, grimacing after finding nothing but the same shaking lumps.

When he faced front again, Dean bit back a gasp. Sure enough, the clowns had completed their rounds and stood before him now, as still as water and quieter than a midnight breeze. They swayed on their toes, little bells tinkling along their collars. It was ethereal. It was _unreal_.

"I'll offer you a deal," Dean found himself saying. His jaw tightened, a flare of rage pinching his chest. "You hear me, you sons of bitches? I'll offer you a deal."  
For a moment, their eyes seemed to twinkle. They had Dean right where they wanted them.

"I'm a hunter," Dean said. "Let me go, and I won't hurt you. It'll be like nothing happened at all." A clown gripped the bars of his cage, staring hungrily into Dean's eyes. He knew they pretended not to listen, but it was hard not to notice their stiffened postures at the mention of hunters.

"I'm a hunter," Dean repeated. "And if you don't let me go, I'll kill you." He blew a breath through his nose so sharply it registered as a snarl. "What are you trying to do? Fatten us up? Eat us at your little birthday party? Sure, I'll do it. I'll eat your cake. I'll drink your lemonade. I've been eating shit my entire life." He gestured to his body, grinning. "There ain't an ounce of fat on me. I don't give it time. I turn it straight to muscle."

The clown removed its hands from Dean's cage, its expression one of mild shock and amusement. A wicked smile spread across its face, exposing those toothless black gums.

"It'th not you we really want," they chorused softly. Dean couldn't help himself. He startled, taking a step back. The one in front, who seemed to be the leader, said, "You're quite old, Dean." It grinned. "We'll thave you for last."

"Don't try to protect him," another said, pointing to Sam. "He'th our favorite."

Dean flung himself at the bars of the cage, cursing and writhing and hollering the nastiest language he could think of. He shook the bars, flailing his arms as far as they could go. He just needed one hit, that was all. One punch, to show them who really was in charge. Ignoring him, they turned in unison, marching back the way they came.

Dean shoved his hands through his hair, gasping for breath. He was close to sobbing, which was a sin in itself. The way they looked at him, like he was food, sent cold down his spine.

Sam stirred, rubbing his eyes, and blinked sleepily at Dean. "Did they come?" he asked.

"No, Sammy," Dean said roughly, cuffing his ear. "Not this time."

"Hmm," Sam whispered. "They always come to check on us this time of night." He pointed to his watch. "I've been tracking the days."

"Might've been the only thing that kept you sane."

Sam chuckled, which sent a flurry of relief through Dean. Sam wasn't broken.

Not yet.

He settled back down with his brother, who sighed like a wounded dog against his chest. He knew damn well he wasn't going to get a lick of sleep, but for Sam, pretending was enough. He could give that small comfort, he knew.

Deep down, Dean knew he wasn't in charge of those clowns.

He never was.

 **A/N Even MORE thanks for making it THIS far! This marks the end of my rewrites, as of December 13, 2018. Don't forget to leave a review. They slightly fill the crushing emptiness of the void inside. Love y'all. Glad to be back.**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three_**

Sam awoke to the sound of scraping.

He lifted his head, wiping the crusted snot beneath his lip.

 _Gross_. Had he been crying in his sleep?

"Dean," he murmured. No response. He cleared his throat, ignoring the pounding in his skull, and whispered louder. " _Dean_!"

The scraping stopped. "Sammy." And Dean was beside him now, grasping his shoulder in a friendly squeeze. "You're awake." Sam grinned. It'd been three weeks since he'd heard his brother's voice, and the deep, rumbling tone brought a flood of warmth to his insides.

"You sound surprised."

Dean gave a bitter laugh. "Living like this, yeah."

"What've you been doing?" Sam rubbed his eyes, grimacing at the dryness in the back of his throat. Lemonade never quite quenched his thirst. It was sugary, not the stuff found in packets, but even if it was created by God and All His Holy Angels themselves, it still wouldn't satisfy his desire for a cold glass of water.

"I've got this plate, see?" Dean said. "The one from the cake. I was thinking; if I could just break it, sharpen the edges, and work at the bars, maybe I could wear them down and get us out."

Sam shot him a reproachful look. "You didn't eat it, did you?"

"Eat the cake?"

" _Yes_ , Dean. The cake." Sam's voice was hard and accusatory. "You know what they're trying to do. You know they're trying to get us nice and fat so they can do whatever the hell they want with us. You know—"

"What was I supposed to do, Sam?" Dean interrupted, crossing his arms. "One of us needs be healthy." He gave Sam a once-over. "Considering," he mumbled beneath his breath, "how you've been taking care of yourself lately."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam hissed, voice rising. His jaw thrust forward in that mulish expression Dean knew all too well. "I saved both our asses, didn't I? I worked—I did too much for you to— aww, fuck it!" He kicked the side of the cage, panting, eyes red.

"Stop talking!" Dean said. "Stop it. You'll wake the boys!"

"So what if I do?" Sam shouted. "So what if I wake them, huh?" Dean watched, eyes wide, as Sam shook the bars, hollering as loudly as his thin voice allowed. "Wake up, you stupid, fat, sons of bitches! Wake up! Maybe you can help, huh? After all these weeks? Come on!" He was wheezing now; a sudden, dizzying nausea swept over him and he buckled to his knees.

Too much, too soon.

Sam had shouted and argued at his father and Dean his entire life. It was the only thing that made him feel like a regular, obstinate teenager. The one thing that made him feel normal.

And now, he couldn't even do that.

He heard the boys stirring, screeching, sobbing, but the noise was distorted. His ears rang, ice cold heat blooming in his chest.

"C'mon," he heard Dean whisper. He felt himself being hauled upwards, held against Dean's chest until he laid him on his jacket. The cacophony rose, prepubescent and deepening male voices alike, each cracking with fat.

" _Help_ me!" one kept shrieking. "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, please, please, please, please, _please_ help me!"

Sam could hardly breathe; his chest rose and fell in hitched gasps, and he grasped the floor with shaking hands, gathering fistfuls of dirt in his fingers. His chest was still drawn tight with anger, but a slow moroseness traveled through his mind until all he could think about was Dean, Dean's death, Dean's death by those demonic creatures. Surely Dean knew Sam's anger was directed at keeping Dean safe. He was thirteen years old, for God's sakes. He wasn't a baby anymore. Sam wasn't the only one who needed protection.

"You feeling better?" Dean asked after a while.

A pause. "No."

"Me, neither."

It wasn't long before Sam heard the scraping start up again. The scraping, Sam noted, from the plate of cake that Dean had eaten. It was probably stewing in his stomach that very minute, the insulin pumping, pumping, pumping through his brother's system to swallow the glucose and create thick, nasty orange fat. Sam had been very careful through the weeks to only feed Dean small bits of cake, enough to keep him alive, but not enough to cause weight gain. He himself ignored the hunger pains and even waited an entire day before putting anything in his mouth. As Dean's weight shrank, so did his own. Every night, with hungry satisfaction, he watched as the clowns tutted and frowned at the brothers' bony figures.

No, it still wasn't fair, not _ever_ , but at least Sam had prolonged the inevitable.

And Dean was messing it all up.

* * *

John awoke with a throbbing pain. It surrounded him, suffocated him. He couldn't breathe. Everything was hot.

He cracked open an eyelid. Immediately, he shouted, hands flying up to cover his face. Bright sunlight pierced his vision, burning his eyes. Tears streaked down his face. Too bright. What on Earth was going on?

Slowly, he coaxed his eyes open wider. His breaths drew more even. Relief sparked in his chest.

He was going to be all right.

Now, to pose the earlier question, _what on Earth was going on_?

"Dean?" he rasped. He swallowed the soreness in his throat. "Sammy?"

Did he drink last night? Had he even made it back to the motel? Panic rose in his chest. He couldn't remember any motel. He couldn't remember the town he was in. A chill ran up his spine when he realized he couldn't remember yesterday at all.

He sat up, eyesight clearing, and discovered he was in a sunlit parking lot. Two smoldering police cars sat beside him, the faintest residue of smoke trailing from their hoods.

Huh. That was funny. From the looks of it, the cars appeared to have caught fire hours ago. Why hadn't any backup arrived?

He scanned his body, cursing when he patted his pockets and discovered all weapons had disappeared. There were bruises up and down his arms, faint scratches on his face. He cocked his head, noticing the parked Impala. He staggered to his feet, praying, begging, close to tears at the hope that his boys were asleep inside. He pounded on the window, once, twice, three times. Frantically, he searched beneath the car, in the bushes, but Sam and Dean remained missing.

He clutched his head, suddenly very dizzy. "Think, you son of a bitch, THINK!" He racked his brain, cloudy images from the day before slowly resurfacing as if from a foggy daydream.

The gas station. The radio call. The closed Biggerson's. The darkened figures, knocking the gun from his hands, quieter than any shadow. The gunshots outside. Him screaming his voice ragged, screaming at Sam and Dean to _run_.

He crumpled to his feet. Jesus, no. The ground swept, sickness rising up his throat. He retched in the bushes until nothing emerged but his own empty hacking. Shaking, he stumbled down the street. He couldn't think. He didn't _want_ to think.

Before long, a telephone booth materialized in the distance. Still gagging, he jogged towards it, threw the door open, and collapsed inside. With numb fingers, he dialed the number so familiar, he could dial it in his sleep.

He could dial it on his deathbed.

It rang three times before the other end picked up.

"Hello? Who's this?"

"Bobby." John was close to fainting. "Bobby. Jesus."

"John? That you? What's going on?"

"Bobby, I need your help. My boys…" John swallowed. He couldn't say it. No, no, no. He couldn't say it.

Bobby's voice was alert now, calm panic tinging his words. "C'mon. It's all gonna be fine. Whatever's happened, we'll figure it out." He blew a breath through his nose. "Get yourself together for me. Tell me what's happened, okay?" John nodded, either not realizing or not caring that Bobby couldn't see the gesture. "Where are Sam and Dean?" Bobby asked.

"That's exactly it. I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Jesus. It's just that— my boys. Bobby, help me. They've been _taken_."

 **A/N Does anyone actually read these? Well, if you are, thanks for making it to the third chapter. I really appreciate each and every one of you. Don't forget to leave a review to let me know how I'm doing and what you'd like to see in future chapters (i.e. John's POV, Sam's POV, more hurt/comfort, etc.). Merry late Christmas/Hanukkah :)**


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